


Monday burn Millay

by LuciferIsSatan



Series: Fahrenheit [2]
Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Genre: Implied/Referenced Sexual Situations, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, fast pacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferIsSatan/pseuds/LuciferIsSatan
Summary: It was a pleasure to burn. Montag told himself, convinced really, whether it was the natural all consuming flame that warmed his fingertips and flushed his cheeks, or the burn that was scorching to the touch. It didn't matter to him either way, all he wanted was to feel that warmth again, that heat Beatty left him with that kept him wanting. That heat to burn away the cold dread in his belly each time his Captain would look at him, to warm that cold stare directed his way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was convinced to make a sequel for my original one-shot of these two, which I made about two-three years ago at this point. Pardon for any mischaracterizations I may make, (grammar, spelling, otherwise - self beta'd) as it has been a while since I've seriously read the book and it's been a while since the first time I wrote the two.
> 
> I'm also dedicating this to [sofiessketches](http://sofiessketches.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for her encouragement and patience. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't have written this to begin with, so thank you! - Enjoy.
> 
> A/N: _Note, that some of these events are somewhat out of order when compared to the book; ex, meeting faber, some burnings, but is done purposely._

Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes.

Montag's fingers twitched. Edna St. Vincent Millay was a poet, wasn't she? He can sometimes recall the familiar covers before tossing them aside with little more than a moments hesitation. He's been hesitating at work. Hesitating over scriptures and works of Tolkien, of the fantasies of Paolini, his hands faulting over names he'll never get to enjoy, over stories he'll never be able to read. He shouldn't want to read, shouldn't want to break the very law he's enforcing but the temptation is there, and it has left him wanting. Eager over floppy covers and billions of heartfelt words. Of worlds so different than his own, feelings so freely spoken.

He burns them anyways.

 _Why_ , he cannot stray too far from hesitation. Hesitation brings attention, attention unwanted and rightfully cruel. Attention that would strip away more than just his badge; the very flesh off of his bones, if need be. _Jailtime was too kind to book worms_ , some of his colleagues had tittered and spat, _Let 'em burn with the pages, learn from example if they want to learn at all._ So he hesitates, but only for a moment, when the men are busy with tearing out pages and busting down hollowed walls trying to find the rest to ensure they've finished the job. They're not watching as he turns one of the books over, not paying attention as his eyes scan over the tattered binding that laid stiffly between his thumb and forefinger.

The eyes that followed the brush of his thumb against the worn corners, said nothing as he watched Montag toss it with the others.

Destroyed, the house was left abandoned and in desolation as he ignited the first sparks that set the house ablaze, feeling no trace of the satisfaction he had felt all those years ago. It was jarring to feel such guilt for something that once brought him such joy, such..- such _exhilaration_. The one unadulterated excitement that use to galvanize his hands into a sweet flush of flame, now left him feeling as devastated, his palms shaky, cold and sweaty, as if he alone were waiting to burn alive. There was no love in it, no love at all.

Numbly, he noted, thinking back to what that poor missing girl Clarisse had told him the night they first met; the night he found his wife overdosed on her bed, the night when the word happy had forever left his vocabulary. 

"- _a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to_ stop _the flames_."

He wonders vaguely if she was telling the truth. He wonders when the roles switched and firemen became a bogeyman to comfortable folk who simply want to escape from their cold realities. Escaping hasn't become taboo over the years, simply that everyone's convinced themselves that they don't need to, yet they continue to ignore the irony of it all. The television, the music, the late nights he watched his wife's shallow breath with those damn headphones in her ears. Never a moment for him, never a moment to remember what it was about her that he had once loved so dearly. Everyone was engrossed, what made books any different?

Montag moved mechanically as he clicked on the safety and handled the flamethrower back into it's holster in the Salamander. Climbing inside without another word. The team he was with patted each other on the back, talking animatedly among themselves. Montag glanced in their direction, catching a glimpse of Captain Beatty as he turned his head away from the inflamed home, momentarily caught his eye, then averting it just as smoothly. Montag turned his gaze towards the fire.

Something had gone wrong between them. Something Montag didn't understand and hadn't wished to face.

They spent many nights together after the first, sneaking and dancing around one another, coming together in a clash of teeth and desperate, searching hands whose palms rubbed out old knots; fingertips that smoothed the worry lines that darkened their faces. Nights lying tangled and breathless and he had never seen someone look so unwound and open in so long; all besides Clarisse, one silly girl with a head full of ideas, compared to a man whose head was chipping away at them; sorting his thoughts into something tangible with the hope that Montag would sink his teeth into every thought, and he did, oh _god_ did he devour every line and inkling of a notion. Words dancing between them, splayed out above and below them, beautiful and captivating and completely whole.

And Beatty;

By _God_ he had been the most stunning of them all.

Montag found himself captivated in a way he hadn't felt in many years. Feeling enraptured by feelings he couldn't even begin to describe but knew that if he tried, they wouldn't do it justice. Wouldn't do _him_ justice. Couldn't.

The way Beatty's face flushed with excitement, hands in a complicated dance in air as he jumped from one topic to the next. His voice was rough, like cigarettes and neon lights buzzing against brick buildings on empty streets. The delicate raise of his brow, the curve of his collar, the fine thin press of his lips, the muss of his greying hair and the grip of his spider-like fingers running over his shoulders as Montag had gripped his hips. The way his breathing changed, shoulders shook, lips parted, oh his gasps and groans against his neck as his body shuddered. Like watching the ripple of a still plane of water, growing larger and more prominent the further out it went before it became still once more.

But for some, unforeseeable reason, Beatty's hands began to halt more, he became far more off-topic, drowning out his words to the background buzzing in the streets until they stopped coming altogether. His eyes once warm became critical, sharp, distracted or uninterested; something happened. Some thought passed his mind, some unkind word in his ear, some cruel revelation stilled his heart and chilled it to his core. Beatty became distant one night, barely speaking to him, quick to dress and say some half-hearted goodbye before starting his trek home, leaving Montag cold and confused. What had he done? Did he not seem enthusiastic enough? Not with the sex of course, never at the sight of him so beautiful and open, but during their aftermath? He didn't know, couldn't, no amount of tracking and revisiting each moment, no reflection or afterthought seemed unwarranted on his half, but what if he didn't see the problem with the problem itself? How can he know where he went wrong when what he did hasn't seemed wrong to _him_?

That ache that Beatty had relinquished from him was beginning to grow into a small flame of its own. The loneliness that his wife had once forsaken him with, once prominent before becoming a blessing, now reared its horrid head with its eyes watching his every move. Now, with Beatty distancing himself, trying to walk away with Montag flailing stupidly to keep him near, he's left defenseless against its accusing gaze.

 _Cheater_ , it calls him, _book reader._ Thoughtless allegations, accusation, taunting him. _Please,_ he wants to cry, _please._

He doesn't know what he wants to beg for, just knows that he has to in order to keep this feeling of fire in his chest. He can't lose that again, not when it was stripped away. Damn the Family, damn his wife, damn the book burning, and damn his part in it all. Damn those damn books hiding in his vents, damn that feeling of helplessness he feels every single time Beatty looks through him now, rather than at him. And goddamn how it leaves him feeling empty and cold, feeling as if he could walk into one of those burning houses and feel nothing as it melted off bits of him, turning him to ash like the novels around him.

It's making him sharp, angry, every bit of him wants to tear those books out from his vents and read every word of them out of spite. Every part of him wants to bring that hurt to his Captain, where love couldn't describe what he felt but lust was too empty a feeling, and tear him apart with every word he devours as long as he can stomach it.

So he does.

Watching the burning was a pleasure he couldn't feel. Beatty stood there motionless with the rest of the fireman, watching it turn to ash. Seemed fitting in a way Montag didn't have the vocabulary or ability to describe. The shadows flickered off his face, speaking low and slow to his team, and Montag knew the words were no longer for him to hear. The gloves on his hands couldn't keep his fingers warm, his coat heavy on his shoulders and he just wanted to go home. Problem was, was that he didn't know whom that was with anymore.

The drive back to the station was a funny affair he didn't quite remember, as were the days that passed following that began to blur together with burning's and alarms and too many questions he couldn't quite follow anymore. Every day Mildred seemed worried and driven away, but never seemed to comment on why he was home away for so long, never questioned why he barely seemed to leave now; just looked at him with no more affection that a stranger in his own household, always busy with her Family. But he saw her, some nights he saw her, standing there in the dark, looming in the doorway of their kitchen, watching him stare up at the vents. She always seemed to watch him without really looking, but those nights, she was looking, and she was seeing something that terrified her.

Some part of him was terrified too.

He seemed to be left with nothing, but Faber was in his ear, and those thoughts of Clarisse kept him.

Visiting the old man, conjuring up their plan to destroy the structure of Firemen and of Firehouses; to open up his mind and his beliefs left him wanting. Some part of him wanted to share this with Beatty; he wanted to tell him about what he really believed when it came to the burning of books, and what they're losing because of it. Wanted to believe that maybe he would understand, that he would want their world to cut off that fast paced idle living that he seemed to despise so much. Beatty with his wild ideas and quick witted retorts that kept him needing, alive, and ferocious. The same body and mind that reminded Montag that he was starving.

Then a burning went wrong, wrong again and he lost his chance. He burnt down a house, he burned a woman. A murderer, she wouldn't leave, wouldn't leave, couldn't, refused, and they killed her. He'd stolen a book too, caught with eyes that said nothing about the theft; to a captain that allowed a woman to burn, and for all purposes, seemed to enjoy it.

 _Something's wrong_ , he didn't want to believe it, refused to, but Beatty was counting down, and the woman wouldn't take his hand, couldn't save her; _he wanted her to die._

As her fragile hands grabbed the match, Montag followed every movement with keen disbelieving eyes. But Beatty's eyes were alive, they were so alive. He could trace a thousand fires dancing there, the shadows along his face were darkened with expectation; he wanted the woman to burn.

Beatty has always been the same man, always a fireman, always a destroyer of books. Montag didn't know why he had expected any different from a man who relished in destruction rather than creation; yet, still, Montag ached. He spent so long thriving on that hurricane, clinging so hard against the pressure he always thought there would be nothing that could break his grip. He didn't want to let go.

And then, Beatty came to him.

The following night, after his wife, for once worried but always distracted, warned him that he would be making waves. Beatty came to him, but not as himself, not as his tender counterpart, but as his boss; Montag hadn't wanted his attention, but he certainly snagged it. Mildred watching, always watching, not exactly observing but judging and agreeing to put a halt to his own babbling once Beatty would inevitably leave. But he sat, comfortably, across from him. Relaxed and staring at him, as if Montag were an exhibit rather than a familiar body he once dragged his hands over, as if he hadn't spent many nights taking and being taken by that same man, loving and warm. And in those moments, those brief glances between him and her, he can almost see the moment when Mildred seemed to realize. That split second when her eyes opened just a fraction, and the fog in her head seemed to clear, and she just knew.

She never brought it up, but her shoulders were tense, and her eyes curious; for once, truly curious. It wasn't a look that lasted very long, but it was a look he was ashamed to admit relieved him; it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough in the sense where it would change what was happening, it wasn't enough in the sense that he could have that happy ending he truly wanted. He didn't have time to wonder what it was that had given himself away, maybe it was something in his face, or in his eyes, but Mildred was gone again and she never brought it up.

And when Beatty spoke, Montag didn't recognize the man behind the words. His views sounded different, sounded vile and hateful but he spoke in a manner of matter-of-fact to defer and deter.

" _Who knows who will be the target of a well-read man?_ " Beatty is talking to him without talking, telling him things without telling, demanding and not demanding, and Montag realizes he's both listening and not, "- _as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior: official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me._ " and he just keeps talking, like a comfort that isn't. Not really, anyways. The man he adored, the man he could have loved, did love, seemed to be missing, replaced by a snake he's never really seen before. " _Burn all, burn everything._ "

Fire is bright and fire is clean.

Beatty knew about the books, knew about every single one of them, but now his knowing felt like a threat. _God_ where did he go? Where is that man, where is Beatty of before and what replaced him with the man he is now? Has he always been this way? A human incinerator of thoughts and feeling? He's the first and last of his kind, and yet Montag never thought he'd be so afraid of someone who is so different but the same as everyone else; Clarisse frightened him, but he loved her just the same. Now Beatty; Beatty was the same as everyone, and that's what frightened him most of all.

He had the power of influence and _oh_ did he influence. Like an intoxicant of a different kind.

They didn't speak for a long time after he left that day, and Montag did something stupid.

The floor littered in books, his wife is frightened, he needs to understand what's wrong with himself and his thoughts. The days ticks away and he goes to Faber, brings a book to the very man he doesn't wish to see, and he is unhappy with his life and the mess it has become.

 _The world is starving_ , he thinks to himself, _and I want to starve with them, so I understand what it's like to be free of consistency._

Faber thinks him a fool and he's right, the night he walks back into the lions den and Beatty is waiting for him, but in a way where it would have appeared that he wasn't. For once, in a long while, he even seems friendly.

He handed him the book and Beatty destroyed it without giving it a look, "Montag," he began, looking at him but not really looking, avoiding it really, "good to see the fever's gone and you're back with the flock."

Montag said nothing but nodded, and Beatty accepted his silence as well as he probably would have an answer and let it drop. The offer to play poker stood, and Montag accepted without really thinking. He was nervous, but for more reasons than he could name. Burn the books, frame the firehouse, escape. Maybe, once, he wanted Beatty to escape with him. To look over the poker table, and in the dim lights see that familiar calm, and Beatty would smirk at him and wink and go back to the game, their feet touching and unseen under the table, but now all he can see is a fire in those eyes that resides closer to destruction rather than comfort. He was prompting him, Beatty the prompter and excavationist to every undug worry and attempter of bringing those doubts to light. He had to be, it had to be him; and it had to be her.

Mildred, the alarm, their team, his house, she leaves, and now he's standing there.

Beatty is watching him, it's all he does anymore, and everything in Montag is screaming at him to run. Faber is screaming, and Beatty is hounding him, taunting and feigning an innocence that Montag now realizes he never had, "What traitors books can be!" he had said to him all but twenty minutes ago, but all Montag can see is what a traitor his own loved ones proved to be.

"Well," said Beatty, smiling but not really smiling, satisfied but not, a contradiction to himself, "now you _did_ it. Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now he's burnt his damn wings, he wonders why-" and he is so cold, the hand of his shoulder shaking him, a crash, another death, and he never imagined it would happen to him. The world was falling apart and it was happening and he could not stop it. Beatty was shouting at him, blaming, but his tone was far from harsh. It was pity. So much pity. There was no love in his body, there was no love in him.

The flip of a lighter returned his attention, looking at Beatty in horrified fascination, his voice quiet, distant, the firemen were not listening but they were quiet when he spoke. "Why?" he asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"You've become a burden, Montag, and fire will lift you off my shoulders, clean, quick, sure; nothing to rot later. Antibiotic, aesthetic, practical." _I want you to do this job all by your lonesome, Montag. Not with kerosene and a match, but piecework, with a flamethrower. Your house, your clean up._

_Ready?_

"Ready." 

It was a pleasure to burn. And everything would burn. It was a build up of release with his leather gloved clad hands holding back the lever, the blast melting every surface it brushed. The walls, the couches, the Family, his memories, the books, and he continued on. Room after room he ignited a flame he tried day after day to snuff out, to bottle up. His distant wife, unhappy marriage, he burned the beds and kept his hands fastened in disgusting satisfaction as he watched all their years together reach the dead end that they have always been chasing. The sleepless nights seeing her eyes white like pebbles and he burned the bathroom, hearing the pops and sizzles from the medicine cabinet, the wallpaper curdling and rapidly catching. He burned room after room, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough, because this chapter of his life will haunt him no matter how hot the fire burns.

He stopped when his shoulders shook and the adrenaline drained from his body, as did the blood from his face when he realized what had become of his home. He wanted this, he needed this, but it wasn't enough. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he could hear the harsh breathing from just over, cruel and taunting and yet some small part of him, soft and tired but certainly still there, wishing things could go back to the way they use to be.

  
  


The hand on his shoulder moved, thumb brushing down against his collar bone then up to the juncture where shoulder met neck. Thin fine lips followed the trail behind delicate fingertips and Montag couldn't suppress the groan that cut off to a chuckle. His breathing was still uneven, heart pounding, but everything felt still; Beatty was unmoved above him, dazed even, quiet.

Contented.

He adjusted from his elbows to the palms of his hands, swooping down to catch Montag's lips but missed by a quarter inch and brushed his cheek instead, though it did little to stop him from pressing them anywhere he could reach. His tongue catching the lobe of the others ear, teeth trailing gentle bites, but there was no passion behind it, just a lazy aftermath where neither was ready to pull away. Montag reached up his hands, admiring every scar and burn along his torso, how the shadows shifted and darkened against the quiet light of the moon through the open window, the breeze cold but calm and neither seemed to really notice it until now.

"You make quite a sight, Guy," Beatty hummed against his ear, his breath musky and laboured, calming down now that he's a chance to catch his breath. He moved back, still situated between Montag's legs, still hovering. There was sweat on his forehead, hair sticking out every which way and Montag thought he looked like one of those angels in tinted glass windows in those old abandoned churches he'd pass on the highways. The kind he would sometimes stop and admire now and then before moving along, always so captivated, and Beatty has captivation down to an art.

Montag couldn't think of any way to respond, words felt wrong for this situation so he opted to simply continue watching him, breathless. His hands brushed up to run through the soft tufts of hair along the side of Beatty's head, admiring how the moon reflected off of the silver strands that were prominently showing through. The years have been cruel to him, but it seemed so minimal now.

The hopelessly charming dopey grin on Beatty's lips made him feel young again, rejuvenated and alive in a way he hadn't felt since.. well, since..- huh. Far longer than he could recall. He can hear Mildred's voice in the back of his head trying to recount the day they first met, originally, and seemed to now fully understand receiving a blank.

Here, in Beatty's simple home, quiet and lived in, the walls pale and untouched by sunlight in such a long time; drapes dusty from lack of use, and Montag could still see the light disturbance they had caused when they'd kicked it semi open in their rush. The sheets smelled of kerosene and mint, now lingered their mingled aftershave and something not nearly as pleasant. Beatty didn't seem to care, never really did after their affair was over for the night, and it was almost time for Montag to go. In all their nights together these past few months, Beatty had never asked him to stay; tonight would be no different, even though he was dragging kisses along Montag's neck and down his chest, as far as he could reach without moving his hips. He bit and nipped and ran his hands over his subordinates chest as if trying to map out every line and curve, embed him into memory. Montag let him because the attention was still so welcome and still so new, he hadn't stopped to think about it.

Montag's ears perked when he heard a chuckle, raising a brow as he upturned his head to get a better look at the Fire Chief. Beatty was looking at him, but Montag couldn't pin point the expression. "What is it?"

"What isn't it?" Beatty replied, "whatever happened to that shy boy back in my office so scared of a little talk of literature?"

Montag frowned, "I wasn't afraid, simply startled. I'd say there was a great difference between the two."

"Always so flustered, you were," Beatty chuckled, leaning down to rest on his elbow, his other arm coming to rest over Montag's chest, his hand brushing over his neck, "in a panic. Skittish like a wild animal trapped in a cage. You never lost that deer in the headlights look, only got lucky you weren't hit."

"I would say not," Montag tilted his head, "at least, not in the same sense."

"Ah, are you insinuating I abuse you?"

"Abuse of power, clearly," Montag snorted, but there was no heat behind it. Beatty smiled brightly.

"As far as I know, you haven't gotten a raise. Can't say I'm using my power for your benefit." Beatty tapped his index finger a moment, "I'm afraid to inform you that sleeping with your commanding officer hasn't done you much good, Guy. Seem's the charade is up, but I'm always a happy participant."

"Seem's you've caught me," Montag turned his head, pressing a kiss against the sharp underside of Beatty's jaw, "but a few more try's wouldn't hurt."

"I admire your moxie, rather cut to it, eh?" Beatty ducked his head to capture his mouth, Montag disconnected their hold and flipped their positions abruptly, Beatty landing on his pillow with a bit of bounce, mouths never straying further than a hair away. Montag was the first to pull away, sucking in a deep breath of air, a silvery string of saliva clung to their parting mouths, hot breath mingling and Beatty's lids half shut, pupils blown and he was so.. just..- words were insufficient; they were always never enough. Beatty was an experience and nothing more could describe the feeling blossoming deep in Montag's chest at the sight of him so unwound.

The idea of anyone giving this up was beyond him. He was caught staring and Beatty blinked up at him.

"Something wrong, Guy?" he asked, "thinking back to your doting wife back home? The family and your separate bed's?"

Montag frowned, "Truthfully they're the furthest thing from my mind right now."

"Then what are you thinking of?"

Montag didn't really know what to say to that. One thought crossed his mind, and another left his mouth; "What was it like when you were reading?"

The question seemed to startle them both, and it was unclear who was more confused by it. Beatty's eyes darted between his own and there was a long stretch of silence that followed. His Captain seemed to finally blink, shifting his legs before relaxing against his mattress; Montag's arms were still locked straight, hovering above him, unwilling to move until Beatty requested it of him -- never demanded.

"Peculiar you'd ask," is all he said for a long moment, his tongue clicking behind his teeth. It was very rare Beatty was ever caught off guard, but Montag seemed to be growing some knack for it. "Rather uneventful, if I'm to be honest with you. There's absolutely nothing in books! Just nonsense, and our world's already filled with enough of that as is."

Beatty paused, frowning, "have you ever been bitten by a mosquito, Guy?"

Montag blinked at him, "why, who hasn't?"

"Have you ever watched the small bump rise and _God_ what an itch it brings? Don't you find it satisfying to dig your nails against it and find that small relief in the minute amount of pain? It's numbing, pleasurable, satisfying burn?"

"Where are you getting at?"

"Well, suppose you don't itch the bite, how do you feel?"

"I don't-"

"How do you feel, Montag?"

Montag frowned, concerned, "I- well, I suppose irritated."

"It nags at you, doesn't it?" Beatty continued with a nod, "yes, irritating. What you wouldn't do to relieve yourself of that itch, yes? To scratch and scratch and find that relief just seconds away so you can focus before you have to start the cycle over again. Itch, scratch, relief, itch, scratch, and so on, you understand? Now, we're adults here. We know that if we pick at a scab it'll never go away, if we scratch at the itch, it'll stay longer and more irritated than if we simply left it alone. Now, say you're.. a smoker." Beatty turned to look down at his discarded clothes, eyeing the pipe that had slipped out of his pocket, his fingers twitched a moment but made no movement to grab it. "Hypothetically, of course, I do understand you don't enjoy a burn of the lungs as you do a good flamethrower, but let's just say."

"You take precious time out of your day, spend dollar after hard earned dollar paying for them after you finish one pack and you're off to the next. An addiction, unhealthy, and aware it will eventually kill you but you continue to inhale them day after day, hour after hour, on the dot. Why do something you're aware is bad for you? Because it distracts you." Beatty snapped his fingers, "distracts you from what's important; lessons we can teach, live a life we can learn from where books teach you nothing! There's nothing in them! Why waste precious money on that abundance of nothing? Why waste your short hours reading, relieving that itch that you will go back to day after day, unsatisfied. You will never be satisfied. It will start with one cigarette, but by tomorrow it's two, then three, then a whole pack. It's a trick, damn trick of the mind you damn well don't need Guy."

"I told you once and I'll tell you again, books are no good. They exist to destroy you, and it's the reason we exist, exterminators as it were, to destroy in return. You and I, Guy. You and I. Collect and vanquish, knights of the Salamander, burn all, burn everything."

Beatty's fingers were tapping away on his hip, his leg hoisted upwards and bent just behind Montag's shoulder. Always the public speaker.

"Why do you suppose we read books to begin with?" Montag eventually asked after a deliberate pause, "back before they were illegal?"

"You're asking quite a bit of questions, Montag," Beatty hummed, eyeing him a moment, "you see, this is why we stopped. You're thinking far too much on the matter."

"I suppose you could say I'm becoming one of the 'queer one's," Montag frowned, "once you start, it's becoming harder to stop."

"I certainly hope that isn't the case," Beatty turned his eyes away from Montag, looking towards the window, "it'd be a shame to lose you so soon."

"Lose me?"

"I shouldn't worry. It's just a phase," Montag was no longer certain Beatty was talking to him anymore, "s'just a phase, it'll pass. All firemen question and wonder, get that itch, it'll pass."

Montag could feel a sense of dread swell in the pit of his belly. Quietly, he exhaled, "what if it isn't?"

Beatty said nothing, but his hand reached and gripped Montag's shoulder, squeezing in a way someone would as a means of goodbye though neither were getting ready to move. They were quiet for the rest of the night, their breathing softer; Montag didn't go home that night.

  
  


The house fell in red coals and black ash. Montag hot with perspiration and the hand on his shoulder dropped, like a weight gone; he willed down the feeling of wanting it back, _needing.._ -. " _If you're quite finished_ ," said the voice behind him, still cold, but still there, " _you're under arrest._ "

Montag felt limp, the flamethrower heavy in his grip as he looked at what had once been something. Demolished, tainted by the very thing he could no longer stand, and it was all his fault. He didn't want to ask who sent in the alarm, he already knew, but he asked anyways. There was a satisfaction in Beatty's voice, one he recognized and resented to his core. His wife, her friends, and Beatty had been willing to ignore them at first, but it eventually became clear he had made a mistake. They both have. Montag could barely think to speak let alone act, but he turned his head, heavy as it was, to look at his Captain, whose eyes were ablaze and satisfied.

Montag didn't know the feeling anymore.

"Is this what you wanted?" Montag's voice was small, helpless, confused and hurt and the distress in his chest was building and building until it would eventually tear him apart. He stiffened his lower lip, brows tight and eyes narrow but tired, so very tired, "for me to slip up, all those months ago? In the office were you waiting for me to admit..-" he swallowed thickly, his eyes dancing between Beatty and the others, couldn't spare a glance at his home anymore. He couldn't find the words.

"Wanted this?" Beatty snorted, his shoulders were relaxed, cheeks smeared in soot and Montag felt like he was looking into the eyes of a serpent, "You believe I planned for you to make such a damn foolish decision? What ever happened to this being a phase, why did you have to-" Beatty cut himself off, his frown turning violent. He straightened his shoulders, "You think you can walk on water with your books." Beatty said instead, "Well, the world can get by just fine without them. Look where they got you, in slime up to your lip. If I stir the slime with my little finger, you'll drown!"

Montag felt the weight starting to pull him down, shoulders slouched and flamethrower such a heavy thing, everything was gone. He was slipping as outrage and distress gripped him by the throat and began to choke him, he did nothing as Beatty shoved him forward, close and cruel and so damned furious. Montag did nothing to raise a hand against him, with every offending accusation; Beatty the judge and jury. The firemen standing off to the side, silent as the shadows darkened their faces; watching.

He was so tired, so damn tired. The earth around him began to shake, but everyone was staying completely still. A jet flew past, then another, but Beatty's eyes were sharp and his focus was entirely on him; oh how he had once missed his attention, starved for it, now he's gotten what he wanted it but was all wrong.

"Montag you _idiot_ ," Beatty spat, shoving his shoulders roughly and Montag stumbled back, "Montag you damn fool; why did you _really_ do it?"

Faber was begging him to leave, to run away, but his legs would not move. He gave himself away when he attempted to follow orders and Beatty struck him, causing him to reel back and land on his ass against the dying grass. The green bullet that Faber had been whispering to him had been knocked out and Beatty snatched it with a speed learned from years of dealing with people like him. Beatty was too clever, too fast, and now his secret was blown and Faber was in danger; Beatty was no longer his concern, but a threat.

Montag stumbled to his feet, switched off the safety without thinking, Beatty's eyes glanced down to the flamethrower in mild shock, eyes falling down before looking back up at Montag. There was a glint in his eyes, surprise, eyes widening only a fraction but Montag caught it. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? Beatty didn't move for a very long time, his brows narrowed, but he did something remarkable with his mouth as he twisted it into a smile. Charming, almost warm, and Montag found himself holding back the sting in his eyes. He can't let go, not to him, he can't.

But Beatty wasn't finished with him yet, his shoulders even relaxed. "Well, that's one way to get an audience. Hold a gun on a man and force him to listen to your speech. Speech away. What'll it be this time? Why don't you belch Shakespeare at me, you fumbling snob?-" his hands were clenched at his sides, snickering between vile sentences, reciting and reiterating, he taunted, "Go ahead now, you second-hand litterateur, pull the trigger." He took one step forward towards Montag.

Montag could barely think, but he held up the weapon, causing Beatty to pause in his step.

"Murderer," Montag spat out, but his voice was weak and he was shaking, "you goddamn hopeless killer. You killed that woman-"

" _We_ killed that woman," Beatty corrected, inclining his head, "you poured the gasoline too, I simply counted down."

"You _wanted_ her to die-"

"You think you're innocent?" his Captain snapped, "you think your hands are clean and pure you filthy book worm? People die! Our job is to burn. Our job is to ext-"

"Exterminate? Is that what you were about to say? We are _killers!_ " Montag shouted desperately, shivering in his coat, "Why is it so bad to question? Because of having a man _worry?_ Why not worry? Why can't we think for ourselves! Why can't we ask questions? Are we afraid? Cold blooded killers afraid of a question? When was the last time you thought for yourself Beatty? When have you ever thought that maybe what we were doing was wrong?"

"Wrong? _Pah!_ Wrong is relative, you ask far too many questions."

"Then why the hell can none of you answer them?" he felt helpless, "why do none of you wonder yourselves? So happy in your simple lives, but they're not so simple. They were never simple, we are _blind-_ "

"You should have never opened those books," Beatty hissed, "I warned you. Guy, I warned you. Look at what you're saying, do you even hear yourself?"

"Are you even listening?" For once, the crack in his voice was prevalent, he was terrified, " _please_ , Beatty, god please, don't. Does everything mean nothing to you?"

"I wanted more for you," he wasn't listening to him, "I told you, I told you."

"Then what drove you away?" Montag demanded, "if you told me, you stopped telling. You ran. You damn coward, Beatty, you ran."

"I gave up on you," Beatty snorted, but something was off about his voice; "you gave me nothing but a headache, and we'll be lighter without your heavy head filling my men with ideas they don't need."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Beatty blinked at him, sneering.

"Oh? Those nights I bent you over my desk again and again until you were a shaking mess who could barely walk home to his doting little wife? Stealing away those pesky little questions that you _would not stop asking_? I grew bored of you! The sex fell apart along with your reason, and now look at where you are. Alone, petrified, and stupider than when we first met. _Reading_ of all things!"

Montag's face felt hot, chest and ears burning, eyes stinging and filling but he willed it down, "Oh? Oh, Montag." Beatty's lips upturned, another step forward, "don't tell me you..? You did, didn't you?" his eyes looked wildly at him, "You were good for a quick bump, but my God you were too flighty and curious for more than a second glance."

"Is that why you disobeyed me?" Beatty chuckled, "to spite me? Never could have what you wanted, huh Guy? Distant wife, unhappy, book reader, you destroyed your home in every way I can name, and now you have nothing! You can't run, you're helpless, love lost, and alone. Is this what you wanted? All of this, because you just had to open those books, didn't you? Can never catch a break, poor old Montag."

"Oh, speechless now, aren't we?" Another step forward, "Please, c'mon Guy, break my heart. Tell me about how I stole yours, tell the whole damn crew! Tell the officers in the prison where you'll rot, tell the ashes of the books we've destroyed, tell yourself every night you find yourself struggling to sleep and wonder what _could have been_. Of all the worries, you're one less off my shoulders! C'mon Montag! We're toe to toe! Tell me how you feel, I am your _ever_ captive audience!"

It felt as if Beatty had placed the grenade and it's pin in each of his separate hands. _He was putting on a show,_ Montag shook his head, _he's lying. He's lying._ It didn't stop his throat from feeling thick, the soot under his eyes mixing with a wetness he hadn't even realized had started, let alone capable of making it stop. _A man doesn't invite you into his home, run his fingers through your hair as a quick lay; a man doesn't hold you and bury his face against the back of your neck when he tries to fall asleep. He doesn't wake you up with his mouth on your cheek and a gentle shake to your shoulder if he was unattached._

Everything hurt, he couldn't think, he was choking and drowning, and Beatty was standing there and he was waiting. His eyes were wild and accusing, there were a thousand fires in his eyes, and a thousand more waiting for him to come. In this moment, he wasn't a man any more than Montag was; he was awake and aware, and he was afraid, he was afraid of the weapon in Montag's hands, but not as he was meant to; he was afraid that Montag wouldn't use it. At the time, Montag hadn't understood, only noticed but didn't register.

He was caught up, but most of all he was bewildered, furious, it all came down to one loss after the next and he had lost count. He was shaking, his shoulders shivering and head hot, everything was too hot, but he couldn't get away, he couldn't get away. Beatty sneered at him, another step, but this time Montag lifted his arms and aimed.

Beatty faltered for only a moment, "Pull the trigger you goddamned second-rate bibliophile, you had your chance."

Montag felt panic rise in his throat, the fear gripped him, his heart sinking in his chest as his hands gripped harder, "Beatty, please, please, _don't,_ " he felt a sob in his throat, "we never burned _right_..."

"Hand it over, Guy."

It was no longer a pleasure to burn.

His finger gripped the trigger, and before him a shrieking screaming blaze of what was once a man jerked and snapped in front of him. The flame was a stream of liquid pulsing out and enveloping the once human mass before him, sizzling and popping, the air turning rank with salt and burning flesh and still he was screaming. The body hit the ground with a heavy thud, the colours turning red to a liquid foamy yellow to a coal black and the screaming never stopped. Montag realized, finger trapped on the trigger and bile rising, that the screams were coming from him, and only him. His finger slipped off the trigger, tense and disgusting, as he shut his eyes and felt his body heave, wanting to cut out the sounds Beatty was still making but not with his voice anymore.

He swallowed and shook and his stomach lurched and nobody around him had moved; the firemen were motionless around him. He swallowed down the rest of his sickness, aiming the flamethrower at them with a horrible shout. "Turn around!"

 _Murderer_ , he didn't get the chance to think when he heard a growl not too far away, _look at what you've done._

The Hound moved in; he could see the morning light reflect off of the grey strands in Beatty's hair. It's growling at him, ready to pounce; how the sides of his eyes crinkled whenever he laughed, his mouth sharp but friendly, calm sipping at his morning coffee. Montag aimed his flamethrower, getting a distance between himself and them; the way Beatty's hands felt cold every morning before he'd slip on his gloves and refuse to take them off until he was home again. His leg was damaged, slowing him down, but he limped and he would get away, he had to; the taste of his lips, the smell of kerosene and tobacco on his breath, crisp and stale and everything he couldn't get enough of.

Everything he could no longer have.

The chase, the hounds, the town flying past, he found Faber; dear Faber alive for who knows how long and soon the river came. _What have I done?_ he stripped out of his old clothes, replaced with the old mans, and wadded into the water. Hundreds of yards downstream, the Hound was gone, the TV's, the luxuries, the helicopters, the chase; it was behind him, everything was behind him, everything was over. Life went on, unsatisfying, but in the right direction. He doesn't know what has come of everything, but he supposed it went back to normal; to forget that Guy Montag had ever happened.

He found his way, by losing his way; a murderer, defender of books, and a poor man standing at the right place at the wrong time took his name without wanting it and became a national scapegoat; Montag is Dead, and the bums he finds are all the wiser, library's within, personified books, and Montag supposes that things truly happen simply because they do.

He tried not to think about what he did, he tried not to remember those faces; Mildred hovering in the doorway in the dark, meeting Clarisse as he turned the building corner on his walk home, Faber fretting nervously and moving about in thoughtless habit, Beatty-

Montag thought of the hidden library in his home. Thousands upon thousands that had lined the walls of his apartment but never touched. He thought of his sharp face, and the fastens of his belt. Of the idle fingers that brushed back loose hair, of the determined set of his jaw of every house they stormed.

He thought of the look on the Fire Chiefs face when his finger pulled the trigger. How alive his eyes were moments before he wasn't much alive at all. Never had he see that look on his face before; he supposed he never would again. Granger squeezed his shoulder a moment, giving Montag a look that indicated that they had a long walk ahead of them. They packed up camp, and Montag helped in any way he could before they began. Long and far, with him lost in thought, trying to recollect the words he had once read, clinging to the faces of those he would never see again, and devouring the ache it left because it reminded him he was still alive, and although he was here and they were not, he could keep them alive in memory no matter the consequence.

Truly, it was a pleasure to burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialog was taken directly from the book; thank you so much for reading. ^^
> 
> Also! I'd like to make a personal shout out again to [sofiessketches](http://sofiessketches.tumblr.com/), and some of her work; these are some of her character designs for Beatty and Montag if you're interested!
> 
> [Guy Montag](http://sofiessketches.tumblr.com/post/151149323969/testing-colors-and-textures-on-montag) \- [Captain Beatty](http://sofiessketches.tumblr.com/post/151266376239/wanted-to-color-beatty-too)


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